Change the Road You're On
by scriptmanip
Summary: Companion piece to "Resting on Your Laurels." Unplanned one-shot, prompted by: 'she lured you effortlessly that day, straight out of the canteen and into the toilets.'


**Author's note:** Blondie, this is all your fault.

I had absolutely ZERO intentions of writing this goddamn thing, and Blondie [who does not even live within 3,000 miles of me and is capable of applying no actual force] forced my hand. I don't even have TIME to be writing this shit because I've got epilogues to finish, for chrissake. And, yeah, in case you were curious, I said epilogues. As in, plural. As in, a two-part epilogue. God help me.

Which is why I don't have time for side projects. Which is why I wrote this in a two-hour blur last night while drinking gin and tonics [so forgive me for any editing mishaps, common misspellings, and/or the light smut]. In any case, here it is.

I'm off to have words with Blondie for being such an enabler.

* * *

_"Emily doesn't even like Led Zeppelin, though it didn't stop her form turning up to college one day wearing the tee – a second-hand purchase from a shopping trip with Katie – as a ploy to get your attention, the crafty minx. It was a bit of trial and error back then – Emily's subtle manipulations challenging your ability to resist them – but she lured you effortlessly that day, straight out of the canteen and into the toilets near the science block for a heated, midday snog."_

Things couldn't be worse, actually. You've totally, _totally_ cocked up this time. Not in that you've kissed a girl – because you could give a shit, really, about labels and the confines of modern society used to box people into categorised subsets – _or_ that you liked kissing a girl. And you really, fucking did – even though just hearing those words in your head makes you cringe at having any sort of affiliation with Katy fucking Perry and her stupid, catchy song. You've instead cocked it up – all of it, everything, the whole bloody kit – because you didn't just kiss some random girl. You kissed Emily Fitch. And so your life, as it stands, is basically ruined.

You're not even one for dramatics [though your mum would possibly have a difference of opinion], under normal circumstances. Leave that type of behaviour to Katie Fitch and the lot of Health and Beauty bints, thanks very much. Girls like you, who read outside of the required syllabus, love history, and have a passion for politics, are meant to be level-headed. Rational. It's how you've seen yourself for ages: exceptionally grounded and generally unaffected. So this is _not_ an exaggeration of events – your life, as you've come to know it, is definitely over. Or it's ending, gradually. Because you can actually _feel_ it slipping away each time Emily catches your eye from across a room, or sidles up to you on a pub stool without warning, or stands next to you before English so that your arms are barely touching, or laughs at the caustic retorts you throw at Cook when he's being a tosser. Your chest caves in and your breathing slows while your heart rate climbs and your palms sweat, which can only mean: the end is near.

The first time barely counts, or so you've been telling yourself. You were barely fourteen, and Emily couldn't have had a clue what she was doing. You could have been kissing _anyone_ at that point, after so many alcopops. No, that isn't right either. But it sounds almost true, for how long you've been saying it. This time, though, it's all very different.

The lake, for instance, was a brilliant, fucking idea. Because shagging her – and it really was something _other_ than a shag, what Emily did to you and what you clumsily tried to replicate for her – has only made things worse. Since now it's not just when you're in her company that your sensory recall begins to malfunction, but even when you're not. When you're sat in your kitchen, totally alone now that the vagrants have moved along, and trying to read. When you're laid in your back garden, trying to enjoy an afternoon fag. When you've been dragged to the market by your mum and something about the jars of maraschino cherries – their sticky, sweet colouring that's not at all a natural red, something chemical and forced, but really sort of lovely all the same – distracts you completely so that she's got to call your name three separate times before you turn on her with a biting, "_What_, mum?"

It's at its worst when you're in bed, looking for sleep that won't come. Because closing your eyes, knowing the darkness will cover you, your thoughts wander more freely. And Emily's always there – half-dressed, damp hair, nervous smile. She's there every time.

You've got an excellent cover, in that you've always been perceived as a raging, _lezzah_ bitch anyway. So on the outside nothing changes, for the most part, and you continue walking through college with your hardened expressions and unimpressed eye rolls and your books clutched tightly to your chest. Effy twigged early on, but if someone's going to know your secrets, you're relieved it's the girl who never, fucking speaks. You can handle her sidelong glances, the subtle curl on her lips when she's noticed something you've said, or something you've done, or when you haven't said or done anything at all. Effy doesn't scare you the way she scares most people. The way she confuses boys like Cook and Freddie. The way she absolutely terrifies Katie. She's fucking enigmatic, which would typically annoy the shit out of you. But then, you've been snogging a girl [and then some] and turning up to college, pretending it hasn't happened. So you're not exactly in a position to throw stones.

You're sat with Effy, actually, or near her anyway, when the twins breeze into the canteen, and you wonder if she's heard it – if the way your stomach drops out has actually made a _sound_. You check for a reaction of any sort, indication maybe that the loud, persistent thudding isn't only happening in your ears, but Effy's barely looked up. She's bored with absolutely everything around you, and that's as good an indication as any. Katie flounces on ahead, leaving Emily to shuffle in behind her. Or, that's typically their entrance – you know it too well, for how many times you've watched them walking in tandem into various rooms. But Emily's got a little bounce in her step today – nothing obvious, nothing like Pandora fucking Moon or anything, nothing anyone else would probably even notice – and it makes your panic swell just a bit more. That Emily seems happy; and that you've _noticed_.

Freddie's apparently had a lobotomy to cure his obsession with Effy and become interested in Katie as a by-product. It's the only explanation, really, because not more than 48 hours ago, he'd been gutted, casting those sad, puppy dog eyes at Effy like he wanted to lap from the palm of her hand. And now, he's got Katie on a knee, his hand around her back and nauseatingly close to her bum. You're not sure when the shift happened, and if it weren't being flaunted so purposefully at the moment, you don't necessarily care enough to take notice of _anything_ Katie's doing. Still, you almost want to ask Emily about it. Or, at least find out why she hasn't told you that her sister's now shagging a floppy-haired stoner, who's so clearly in love with someone else. But then, why should she tell you anything? You left her crying on a forest floor, and haven't done much of anything to make up for it.

Emily looks at you, of course she does, and you've been expecting it, but the effects of meeting Emily's gaze are never lessened by anticipation. It's always coupled with her meagre smile. A small one that's always meant, _'I won't make much show of saying how happy I am to see you.'_ Except now it says other things as well. Emily looks at you now like she _knows_ things. Things you've never actually told her. Things you've never actually said aloud ever, to anyone.

"Hey."

Emily's greeting is always the same. A one-syllable, unobtrusive word meant to convey hardly anything – the least possible amount of sentiment. You're sure she's planned it this way – you're sure she's learnt, after years of mostly clipped interaction with you, to remain innocuous. But it doesn't work. It never really has, but certainly not in light of recent events. She can't be the mousy doormat to everyone around her and _also_ be the girl who boldly dipped between your legs and stole the air from your chest. Any mundane word she says is now layered with the things she's _done_, and you tense immediately at the soft scratching of the word as she sits across from you.

You try hard for disinterest and look back to the open book on your lap. "Hi." Your own voice is too quiet, and sounds too much like it's going to disappear altogether – evaporate into the air between you.

"I've got a fucking migraine." Effy gathers her things and stands, and it's only when she pauses beside you that you realise she's talking to you. "Let's have a fag."

"Oh, yeah. Alright."

Effy starts off without you, and you're still scrambling to shove your book back into your bag as she passes Emily and says, "Cool shirt."

"Oh, thanks."

You glance up then, and Emily's still looking at you even though you haven't said a bloody thing about her tee shirt, or her new skirt, or the way she's darkened her eye make-up so that the colour of them is somehow deeper than before. You've got to get out of there, and quickly, before you say any of these things. Because her tee shirt _is _rather cool, and doesn't look new but worn, like she's bought it second-hand. And part of you wants to pull the cotton between your fingers to see if you're right. Part of you wants to wake up with it on your floor where Emily's discarded it, and slip into it when you sneak downstairs to make tea and smoke a fag. Part of you wants to make her smile when you crawl back into bed wearing it – that half-lazy, sleepy smile you know Emily has upon waking even though you've never actually seen it.

You manage a rushed, "See you," as you pull your bag over a shoulder and head for the door.

Effy doesn't talk even when it's just the two of you, and it's better anyway – smoking your fags in silence – because you're not sure what you might say if she asked. _Too much_, you think. The tipping point isn't far off, and if Effy asked anything, you'd say way too much. There's a tree on the lawn with a stone wall around it, and it's where you come to smoke after lunch because it's right off the canteen. You've not finished more than half your cigarette when you spot her, like a fucking siren with that shade of red, walking down the corridor that's wall of windows faces where you're sat.

"I've got to pee," you say without thinking, and stand to crush your fag against the low, stone enclosure.

"Don't forget to lock up." Effy exhales lazily, watches the billow of smoke she's produced float into the air and disappear.

"Huh?"

She rolls the remainder of her cigarette between her fingers, watching as tiny bits of ash fall onto the toe of her boot. "The cubicle. Wouldn't want anyone to walk in and see your bits."

You eye her cautiously. "Right."

Effy looks up at you, smiling like she's told a joke, and only she knows the punch line. "While you're pissing, I mean."

"Right." You say again, and clear your throat. "Cheers."

Of course it's possible Emily's not even gone to the loo. Though the times when she goes anywhere without Katie are few and fucking far between, and so it's not a bad guess. Turns out, it's a great guess because she's there, near the sinks, when you enter. Emily doesn't say anything by way of a greeting this time, just smirks at you through the mirror as you approach the sinks and drop your bag to the tiled floor. You turn the taps and stick your hands under the cool water to distract from the way you can't breathe. But Emily just stands there watching, amused, and so you turn them off a second later because it's fucking useless.

"Nice shirt." You say it with your back to her, hoping she hasn't noticed the way you fumble to dry your hands, and then turn around to find Emily's already squared herself in your direction.

"Thanks." She's still just smirking, and it's infuriating, really, that you can't get her to stop.

"Discovered a taste for classic rock then, have you?"

Emily shrugs and crosses her arms. "You could say that."

"Right." You roll your eyes and try taking a step away from her, only to realise there's a wall at your back.

"Didn't feel like a cigarette after all?"

She takes a step forward as she says it, and you suddenly feel like a caged animal because there's literally nowhere for you to go. Except maybe to exit, slip through the door to your right and not look back. You're just not sure you want to leave.

"Not really," you say after clearing your throat.

Emily takes another small step and looks at the door. You wonder if she's considering the lock, or if she's heard someone coming – both scenarios skyrocketing your nerves and leaving you basically paralysed. When she takes another step, she's far too close to do anything other than what you came here to do, which is kiss her _obviously_, but then Emily pauses and licks her lips.

You're readying for it, clenching your fists at your sides and holding your breath, when she smirks again and says, "I've got to pee." She spins on the balls of her feet and heads for the stalls, and you could honestly murder her for winding you up only to walk away.

It's anger that fuels you and frustration that pushes you forward and a need you can't fucking shake that forces your hand to grab at her wrist. She's just pushed open the last cubicle when you reach her, and you tug a bit harder than you'd planned because she's stumbling into you and bracing herself with a hand to your waist. There's about three seconds of laboured breathing where you're both stood watching the other, your hand still wrapped tightly around her wrist and Emily's eyes darting frantically between your mouth and eyes. Her tongue dabs again to moisten her lips and this time there's no stopping it. You have to dip your head to reach her mouth, but once there's contact Emily's up on her toes, grabbing hold of your shoulders.

You settle on her waist, one hand on either hip, and pull her closer. Emily's gotten somewhat aggressive with her kisses, a far cry from the girl who was timid and unsure not six months back in Panda's sitting room. And she's quite liberal with her tongue, pushing it into your mouth where it finds your own. The moan you let slip echoes off the tiled walls and the metal piping, but it's what you can't control – how Emily elicits reactions from you by running her fingers into your hair, by pulling urgently on your bottom lip. So you push her backwards until she's stumbling into a cubicle, and in its confined space all decorum goes out the fucking window. Emily's hands fly up your shirt and push up on your bra until it's popped over your breasts so her hands can cover them. It's the way things have gone, on occasion, at the club after too much tequila – you and she finding one another in darkened, dingy toilets. And you'd always attributed her forwardness to alcohol. Though you've apparently been wrong about many, many things. Like how girls who let themselves get felt up under the stands of the football pitch are demoralising the youth of today and suffering from low self-esteem. But as your hand creeps under the hem of Emily's skirt and fans across the back of her bare thigh, you realise you've gotten _several_ things horribly wrong.

"Shit, we can't—" Emily's words are really just hot breaths against your mouth, but her hands have stilled on your breasts which is what really gets your attention.

"What?"

She bites her lip when she laughs, and you have to work hard not to slam into her as a result. "We're in the middle of fucking _college_, aren't we?"

"Yeah," you laugh, your forehead coming to rest against hers. "Yeah, shit. We are."

"Can you – I mean, do you want to bunk off?"

"Yes," you answer instantly, and Emily breathes out in relief and is kissing you again before you have to stop her and say, "But, I can't. History exam."

"Oh. Okay."

"Sorry."

Emily smiles and falls back against the thin metal wall behind her. Her head tips back as you awkwardly fix your bra and smooth out the wrinkles of your top. And then she asks, "Sorry for what?"

"I don't – I don't know," you say with a nervous laugh.

Emily stands up straight again and is instantly closer. She always seems to do this – gives you space only to take it back. "Sorry you came looking for me?"

You can't lie while looking at her, so it's with a quick glance to the toilet that you scoff, "I didn't come looking—"

"Right, well, maybe you can _not_ come looking for me some other time," she says, folding her arms across her stomach. "Not the worst way to spend my lunch hour, actually. Pungent odours notwithstanding." Her nose crinkles as she says it, and you can't help but smile.

"Yeah, me either." It seems you've said the right thing then – even though you've not ever had a fucking clue what that is where Emily's concerned – because her face lights up and she smiles brightly, despite the way she's got her lips pressed together.

Emily reaches for the latch on the door then, and you've got to step closer together in order to swing it open. The proximity is nearly enough to send you spiralling back into her, picking up where you left off.

But then she says, "After you then," with a gallant wave of her arm.

"Thanks." You pause just outside the stall, thinking Emily will join you at the sinks, but the door starts to close again. You look at her curiously, and perhaps a bit panicked, through a small gap in the open door.

"I actually did have to pee earlier," she admits with a smile that's turned sort of adorably bashful.

"Oh. Shit. Sorry." It's embarrassing on several levels because you've made all kinds of assumptions within the past twelve to fifteen minutes that led to all sorts of actions that you now can't help but question.

Emily shakes her head though, and the way she regards you is so warm and sincere that it relaxes you instantly. "No, it's fine," she says. And then, "I didn't mind the wait."


End file.
